


To Hold Beauty in My Soul’s Arms

by antepenultimatey



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Confessions, Desire, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, I Want to Make You Feel the Way You Make Me Feel, M/M, Missing Scene, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 14:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20707448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antepenultimatey/pseuds/antepenultimatey
Summary: On the bus ride back to London, Crowley discovers that he can feel Aziraphale's desires.





	To Hold Beauty in My Soul’s Arms

Crowley sank into the seat, the cold of the window pressing against his body. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t entirely sober either. Surely that was why his right arm floated up of its own accord to take Aziraphale’s hand and pull him into the seat beside him.

It wasn’t the first time they’d touched, not even the first time they’d touched in affection, but this time it was different. Not just because they were together in public on a bus about to make a convenient detour to take them home, but because _they_ were different.

At least, Aziraphale was different.

Crowley felt it in the tingle of his fingers, still entwined with Aziraphale’s. It was like when he changed his own human-shaped body into something else, a phase state change from solid to gas to spirit. Aziraphale’s heaven-issued body wasn’t like Crowley’s. It was more solid, more permanent. But now…

Everything was different now. The world had not ended, Aziraphale was not discorporated (or worse) and was, in fact, sitting so close to Crowley that his ethereal warmth nearly cancelled out the cold of the window. He’d even failed to definitively say no to Crowley’s offer to stay at his place.

It wouldn’t last, Crowley thought. Never did. Aziraphale would find some reason why they had to part, why he couldn't stay. He always did. It was inevitable.

But something felt different. He knew it like he knew when the voice from the radio was the announcer and when it was… something else.

Crowley glanced down but it was too dim in the bus to see their still entwined hands. He wasn’t sure they were still technically hands. He felt as if his fingers had combined with Aziraphale’s, as if their two separate human bodies had discorporated at the point where their fingers met and now they were a single, ethereal occult entity. A single conjoined hand, anyway.

_That’s never happened before. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have noticed. Better not say anything. _

Well, he wasn’t entirely sober and he was very, very tired. The bus set off and Crowley leaned against the damp cold of the window and drifted into sleep.

#

“Wake up, Crowley.”

Aziraphale shook him lightly as the bus neared Crowley’s flat. He blinked and the remnants of his dream slipped away from him. He had never dreamed like that before—he couldn’t remember any of the details but he was still overwhelmed by its emotions. He felt wrung out, somehow both wound up and unravelled. He glanced at Aziraphale, but the angel didn’t show any signs that Crowley had done or said anything in his sleep other than end up leaning against Aziraphale instead of the window. He just wore his usual slightly bemused beatific face, one eyebrow raised at the sleepy demon.

Crowley looked down at his hands resting in his lap. Solid. Solitary. He flexed his fingers and felt only Crowley in them. He felt briefly bereft, then shook it off. Must have just been part of the dream. It had been a very long day after all.

#

“I really don’t mean to impose,” Aziraphale said, his own hands clasped tightly in front of his stomach as they rode up in the lift.

“S’not an imposition, angel,” Crowley growled, still on edge. “I’m not going to turn you out into the street, am I?” The lift door opened and he strode into the hallway, quickly looking back over his shoulder to make sure Aziraphale followed. “Besides, I could use the company.”

He unlocked the door and a noxious smell greeted them.

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley said. “Forgot about that.”

“Good lord,” Aziraphale said, eyes wide. “Is that—”

“Ligur. Yeah,” Crowley said and stepped gingerly over the mess. “Best clean this up.”

Aziraphale bent over the disgusting puddle and Crowley sharply said, “Watch it! That’s holy and hellish all mixed up together into some kind of ungodly, undevilish stew. Probably destroy us both.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale frowned, then said, “if I take care of the holy bits and you handle… the rest, we might be all right?”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed and pulled up some demonic power to evaporate the hellish components. Aziraphale miracled away the holiness and in a moment all that was left were the remains of a badly abused red plastic pail. Crowley toed it with his boot, then when nothing melted, caught fire or exploded, he kicked it into a corner.

“Wine?” he asked, stalking toward the drinks cabinet. All of a sudden his large flat felt awfully close with the two of them in it. He felt a strong need to put something between him and Aziraphale, even if it was only a pair of wine glasses.

“I’ve got a couple of bottles of a nice—” A muffled sound came from Aziraphale, and Crowley turned to see him leaning against the wall, tears flowing down his cheeks. It must have finally hit him, all the stress of the last few days catching up with him now that they were both, for a moment at least, safe.

“Angel.” Crowley knew, absolutely knew as clearly as he knew his own name, that Aziraphale wanted to be held. By him.

Something from his dream came back to him, a sensation rather than images. Somehow being able to feel Aziraphale’s desires. The knowledge and the strength of it was like being submerged in a tumultuous river. It was too much. But how could he know?

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sobbed and it broke the demon out of his thoughts. He crossed the room and stopped just short of touching Aziraphale. He let his arms fall open and the moment stretched until he thought he’d accidentally stopped time, when Aziraphale shifted his weight forward and came to rest just barely against Crowley’s chest. Crowley slid his hands around Aziraphale’s body and felt the angel fully lean into him. Aziraphale clutched at Crowley’s collar and buried his face into his shoulder.

“We nearly lost,” he said into Crowley’s neck, his breath hot, tears soaking into Crowley’s jacket. “We nearly lost _everything_.”

Crowley had no words of comfort. He knew what that felt like, even more than Aziraphale did. He _had_ lost everything, or thought he had. But now here was Aziraphale in Crowley’s arms, asking for so much. Too much, a part of Crowley’s mind said, but he pushed it away and held on just a little tighter.

A sense of calm descended on them as Aziraphale’s tears dried and he drew strength from Crowley’s embrace. He pulled back finally, just enough to be able to look up into Crowley’s eyes.

“We’re on our own side,” Aziraphale whispered, and for once it was a statement not a question. 

“Always, angel,” Crowley said and then Aziraphale’s lips were on his. Softly, almost chaste. An ethereal warmth began to grow steadily, and it slowly enveloped Crowley’s body from the head down. Images—from his dream?—flooded his mind: Aziraphale’s hands glowing with divine light, resting on Crowley’s chest, unbuttoning his shirt. Fingers on his skin. Their bodies moving together in a unified rhythm. Those glowing hands, heaven-bright kisses, all over Crowley’s naked body. A sense of joy and pride and, yes, deep love as Aziraphale looks down at Crowley, his head thrown back, his face the very picture of a saint rapt in divine ecstasy.

He had loved Aziraphale for so long but he’d never once let himself believe that the angel could feel this for him. And yet, somehow he utterly knew it to be true. Aziraphale wanted this so much, to be responsible for Crowley’s pleasure, to be as close to him as two human-shaped bodies could be. After everything, how could Crowley possibly deny him this?

In six thousand years as a demon of temptation, Crowley had done much more for a much worse cause than making Aziraphale happy. He could do this. He could give Aziraphale the fulfilment of his longing. He’d give Aziraphale his eternal life in a heartbeat, surely, _surely_ he could do this—

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said, pulling back from the embrace, a look of concern on his face. “Is something wrong? Am I— going too fast for you?”

Crowley blinked. He’d tried, he really had, but obviously he’d failed. He had stopped breathing, stopped moving entirely. The very atoms of his body barely vibrated. He fought to regain control.

“That’s not funny,” he croaked, looking away.

“I—”Aziraphale said, pain crossing his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Crowley stepped back, turned away. He knew what Aziraphale wanted, he knew it more clearly than he knew what even he himself wanted, but how could that be possible? He forced himself to breathe.

“Have I ever denied you?” he asked softly, still facing away.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s hand grazed Crowley’s shoulder, making his body stiffen. He forced himself to relax, to enjoy the touch without thinking of it as an invitation, as a request, as a plea. Because he did enjoy it—the touch, the embrace, the kiss. He had imagined moments like those so many times over six thousand years. In his darkest hours, the slightest brush of their fingers had been enough to keep him going. But in his imagination he could control where those touches went, where they didn’t. He turned to face Aziraphale.

“Saying no has always been your thing,” he said with a lopsided grin, trying for levity.

“I’d never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to do,” Aziraphale said solemnly.

“I know,” Crowley said. “But I also know what you desire.” He kept his gaze locked on Aziraphale, even though every molecule in his body was trying to get as far away from here as possible.

“You do?” A flush crept up Aziraphale’s cheeks and he took a step back. “How?”

#

“I think it’s your new body,” Crowley said from behind the safety of his wine glass. They were seated next to each other on the sofa, a respectable distance apart. The events of the previous half hour settled between them like a tangible weight.

“No, I rather think it’s not,” Aziraphale said, his eyes skittering around the room toward anything that wasn’t Crowley. “My, um, feelings are not new to this body.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Crowley said. “I mean that you’re like me now.”

“I’m what?”

“Your body. It’s more like mine.”

Aziraphale looked down at himself, his curves and softness, then over at Crowley’s lanky frame draped over the sofa.

“Is it, now?”

“Not how we look, angel,” Crowley said, exasperated. “How we’re made. My body has always been changeable. It’s, let’s say, somewhat porous. But the body you had, the one you were issued, it was more human. Solid. Contained.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.” Aziraphale squirmed and drank deeply from his own wine glass.

“But when Antichrist—whatsisname?”

”Adam.”

“Yeah, when Adam reincorporated you, something changed. And now, when I touch you…” Crowley reached out tentatively, hovered his hand over Aziraphale’s, and finally took the angel’s hand in his. “When we touch, I can sometimes feel you. Your thoughts. Your… longing.” He looked down and found that his hand and Aziraphale’s had blurred into each other. He looked up and saw that Aziraphale was staring at the space between them, where they met and flowed into each other. Hellish and holy.

“Oh!” Aziraphale whispered, still staring. “I think I can feel you, too.”

Crowley desperately wanted to pull his hand away, to hide himself from Aziraphale, but the wave of emotion coming through the connection stilled his body. Aziraphale so keenly wanted to know him, wanted to be close to him, and he couldn’t move. He’d never been good at denying Aziraphale.

Finally, Aziraphale relaxed his grip, breaking the connection, and looked over at Crowley.

“You love me,” he said, awed, tears brimming in his eyes.

Crowley looked away and flexed his hand, feeling the remnants of Aziraphale’s thoughts leave him. “Well, obviously.”

“Then, why?” Aziraphale didn’t need to be specific. Crowley knew what the angel was asking.

“I suppose I didn’t want to start something I couldn’t finish,” Crowley said, the honesty he’d hidden even from himself coming out in a rush, and turned away. He refilled their glasses to give his useless body something to do.

Aziraphale stared at him, confused, then his face changed as realization came over him. He knew more about Crowley than he’d first understood. “Sex,” he said, simply. “You don’t like it.”

Crowley shrugged as if it weren’t important. “Just not my thing, really, body stuff. Not like you.”

“Bodily pleasure isn’t sinful, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“I know that,” Crowley snapped, then sighed. “Sorry, angel. This isn’t easy.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, looking down, his hands in knots in his lap. “Oh, of course!” He reached out for Crowley and took his hand. Images flooded Crowley’s mind, medieval woodcuts of demons torturing humans and each other. Hieronymus Bosch. C-grade supernatural horror porn. Crowley extracted his hand from the angel’s grip.

“Crowley, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale breathed, “of course, your experiences would be traumatic. I can’t believe I didn’t realize until now—”

“Oh, stop, angel.” Crowley laughed, actually amused. “I’m not traumatized. Hell isn’t exactly dining at the Ritz, but it’s not like _that_ either. Humans made up those stories themselves, for their own freaky reasons. I’m not like this because of hell. It’s just…” he shrugged, “who I am.” He took Aziraphale’s hand again and tried to open that part of himself, to make Aziraphale feel what he felt.

For so long he’d kept himself still, kept the things he wanted and didn’t want hidden away. Not just from Aziraphale, but from himself. Now, as they sat on his sofa, hand in hand, looking into each other’s eyes, Crowley let himself feel. Everything.

The utter joy of first seeing the Principality of the Eastern Gate gaze upon him, _him_, a demon who had fallen from Grace, with kindness.

The sweet look of recognition in an angel’s eyes when they met accidentally on purpose.

The complete desolation when he thought Aziraphale was no more.

His compulsion to keep his angel safe, if only to be able to be caught again in those divine eyes one more time.

A new love, different than that but just as strong, for this human world and its inhabitants.

The nearly consuming terror of losing those things.

“It’s not sex I want.” Aziraphale’s voice came to him both as if from a great distance and from deep within himself. “At least, it doesn’t have to be. There are other ways to be close. And we’re not human, after all. We have something entirely more intimate, or so it seems.”

Crowley blinked as Aziraphale’s face changed. A warm glow emanated from his skin, nearly eclipsed by the golden halo now surrounding him. His eyes shone blue, and cracks began to appear in his face where more blue light burst from within him. It should have been terrifying, his wings erupting with a shower of sparks, but Crowley was suffused with calm. With love.

“So beautiful,” he whispered as he found himself drawn toward the numinous apparition before him. Their lips touched again, and Crowley saw himself through Aziraphale’s many eyes. Long hair made of a flame that warmed but never burned, a sinuous body wrapping itself around the angel, amber eyes glowing with adoration.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, “you are… so… utterly… beautiful.”

And then there was no more Crowley and no more Aziraphale. They were one being, wrapped around and within each other, a singular emanation of light and dark suffused with wanting and receiving, desire and satiation, love and care and tender comfort. A sure and certain knowledge: you will never be alone as long as I am here.

#

It was quite some time before they came back to themselves, their individual almost human bodies. At first they didn’t quite manage it, getting all the Crowley-parts into a Crowley-body and vice versa. Finally they managed to leave each other, their fingers flowing from grey to light and dark as they separated properly back into themselves. Individual again.

It was good to be back in his own body, Crowley thought, stretching his muscles to feel the essence of himself refill, but there was a sense of loss, too. He couldn’t bear to be further apart from Aziraphale than this, so he stayed where he was, his cheek pressed to Aziraphale’s chest, wrapped in his arms. And so they lay together on the sofa, loose-limbed and at ease, Aziraphale’s hands in Crowley’s hair, Crowley’s fingers tracing the pattern on Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“Well,” Crowley said after an age had passed. “That was a thing.”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale sighed contentedly.

“Could have gone wrong,” Crowley went on, “we might have discorporated.”

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Aziraphale said and Crowley looked up sharply. Aziraphale waited a beat then laughed. “At least we didn’t explode.”

“You sure we didn’t? Felt a little explodey for a moment there.”

“It felt wonderful.”

“Yeah, it did.”

Crowley shifted to lean on his arm and look at Aziraphale. “Can you imagine what they’d make of this? Our respective former head offices, I mean. They’d lose their minds.” They both laughed, then reality came back to Crowley. “Before they finished us off once and for all,” he added darkly.

“Let’s just have this for now,” Aziraphale said, pulling Crowley back down into his embrace.

“Mmm,” Crowley nestled into his arms. “Alpha Centauri’s still on the table.”

“Not that again.”

“Well, we’re going to have to come up with a plan to stay safe at some point.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale sat up sharply, spilling Crowley half off the sofa. A look of—dare he say it—devilment crossed the angel’s face as a dangerous smile brightened his face. “I think I might just have an idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a poem by John of the Cross


End file.
